Faye was singing loudly in the shower, unaware of her audience. Chuckling at the tuneless sounds emerging from the bathroom, Martha returned to the sanctuary of her kitchen. Ten minutes later, wafting a cloud of Miss Dior shower gel in her wake, Faye padded into the bedroom, her towel wrapped securely around her slim body. She stopped short as she spotted the expertly ironed dress laid out on the bed and silently blessed Martha. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she stroked lavish amounts of the expensive perfumed cream she had brought from London all over her body, pausing to admire her beautifully manicured nails. Earlier that afternoon, after Faye had asked to borrow some shampoo, Amma had dragged her protesting to the local hairdressers, insisting that no one washed their own hair in Ghana. Faye, still smarting from Sharice of Streatham’s sadistic experiments on her hair, had been pleasantly surprised by the hairdresser, who skilfully trimmed and styled her hair, leaving it looking full and glossy.
